


the sun will rise with my name on your lips

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: Rounds of Kink [10]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Blood Drinking, Community: rounds_of_kink, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Hate Sex, Rough Sex, Scratching, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 16:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Clary is the one who left her; if anyone deserves to be bitten, deserves to be scratched and bruised, it’s her.So when Clary leans away to suck in a breath, Camille wraps her fingers around her delicate chin, yanks her head to the side, and sinks her fangs deep into Clary’s neck.The blood that washes over her tongue burns hot as silver and tastes sweeter than any confectionery that even the most talented of bakers could create.





	the sun will rise with my name on your lips

**Author's Note:**

> written for the following prompt for Round 31 of Rounds of Kink: _'I hate how much I love you' - Rhianna. Hate!Sex, biting/scratching._
> 
> also written for the following prompt for round 3 of the Shadowhunters Prompt Ficathon: _**Camille/Clary** : The sun will rise with my name on your lips, 'cause everything will change tonight. _
> 
> technically, this is a sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11824299) Camille/Clary fic, but can also be read as a standalone. title from [The Driver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=foXqHUopCJU) by Bastille.

Camille hears Clary coming long before she actually steps into the room. 

The sound of her heels striking the ground in rapid succession is piercing enough to make Camille wonder if she’s wearing the stiletto boots she gifted her what feels like an eternity ago. Even through the walls, she can hear her heart pounding ferociously, and she can _smell_ her too, the deliriously rich scent of her Shadowhunter blood. 

(Camille has tasted other Shadowhunters since Clary discovered her true heritage and left her employ, but none of them have been the same. Frankly, they haven’t even come _close_.)

She takes her time preparing herself for Clary’s entrance. She closes the Sotheby’s auction catalogue that she’s been perusing, smooths down her skirt and crosses the room to refill her glass with blood chilling in the miniature fridge built into the wall. Once she’s finished pouring, she speeds back to her desk and leans against it on the side closer to the door, closer to Clary, whose footsteps are resoundingly loud. 

She turns the corner and enters the room just as Camille takes her first sip.

“Welcome back,” she says, running the point of her tongue along her lips to catch every last drop of blood. 

Clary doesn’t respond. She just strides across the room, her mouth drawn into a tight line, seraph blade extended at her side. 

(Camille is pleased to see that it’s free of blood and ash. Her flock was under strict instructions to leave Clary unharmed when/if she returned, but Camille wasn’t certain that all of them would listen. 

Thankfully, it looks like even the most stubborn of them all thought better about challenging Clary.)

She looks every inch the typical Shadowhunter now. She’s clad in black from head to toe, from her boots (which, sadly, are _not_ the ones Camille gifted her) to her jeans to her tank top. There are ruins dotting her pale limbs, marring up the slender curve of her neck and the length of her arms, so numerous that they look downright gaudy, like bad tattoos procured on a drunken night out. Camille can smell the fury leaking out of her, can see it in the fieriness of her eyes, like there’s a whole tornado or hurricane packed behind them, waiting to be unleashed. 

It’s been mere weeks since they were last in the same room, but already, the Clary that she knew before, the sweet but naive girl with the ripped jeans and paint chips in her hair and charcoal smudges on her fingers, the one who came around Camille’s fingers and against her mouth with Camille’s name upon her lips, has been swallowed up by her newfound identity. 

“Not even a hello?” she asks with a raised eyebrow, swirling the blood around her glass, letting the smell of it waft into her nose. Clary stops in front of her, not close enough to touch but close enough that Camille can see her carotid artery throbbing underneath the ruin burned into her skin.

For a few moments, she doesn’t speak or move. She remains motionless, shoulders taut, eyes locked on Camille’s without a inch of fear in them, without anything but anger filling them. 

By the time she _does_ move, holsters her seraph blade and reaches for the messenger bag hanging over her shoulder, the only obvious remnant from her previous life, Camille is growing bored enough to consider leaning forward and stealing a kiss. 

When Clary withdraws her hand from the interior of her bag, she’s clutching a fistful of photographs. When Camille placed them in an envelope two weeks ago, they had been glossy; their surfaces had been so shiny with fresh ink that she’d almost been able to see herself reflected in there, like a coin at the very bottom of a deep wishing well. But now, they’re covered in smudged fingerprints, and their edges are dotted with tiny rips from too much handling. 

Camille has to admit, she’s surprised that they aren’t marred with scorch marks as well. 

“What the hell are these?” Clary asks, thrusting the photographs at Camille’s face before opening her fingers and letting them flutter to the floor like ashes. As they fall, the scenes displayed on them, captured by the high-resolution security camera resting in the spine of a fake book lining one of the shelves behind her desk, replay in Camille’s mind. 

The first time Clary had kissed her, so beautifully brazen yet nervous, so nervous that it was all Camille could taste in her mouth. The first time she had Clary laid out on top of her desk, her alabaster skin in warm contrast to the warm tones of the mahogany, her pale thighs parted in order to allow Camille between them. The first time she’d sunken her fangs into Clary’s neck and drank from her. 

All these moments and more plummet to the floor. 

“You’re an artist,” Camille replies, raising her gaze from the memories. “I would have thought that you’d know a thing or two about photography.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Clary hisses, fingers hovering over the handle of her seraph blade. “Why did you take these? Why did you send them to me?” 

The first question is easy enough to answer. It’s not as if the camera exists solely to take pictures of her lovers; it documents _everything_ that takes place in her office, down to the most trivial of actions. She’s the only one aware of its existence; not even Raphael knows that it’s hidden on the shelf. 

Vampire senses may be one thing, after all, but if someone was truly determined, they could find a way to steal from her, a way to mask their scent or erase any trace of their presence. 

Except for the images captured by the camera. 

(That, and on the off chance that the Clave decides they’ve had enough of her and make an attempt on her life... 

Well, whether or not she survives the attempt, she’ll have the footage to bring the whole damned organization crumbling down.)

The second question is more complicated. 

After Clary left her, terminated both their professional and personal relationship, Camille had gone through the camera’s archived recordings, cleaned up some of the frames, and printed out her favorite images. She’d fanned them out across her desk and studied each one, let her gaze linger on the still drying ink. She’d kept four as mementos, which she tucked away into a leather bound album bursting at the seams with other images, newer photographs and older reproductions of woodcuts and paintings. 

The rest of the images had ended up in a thick cream envelope that she’d sealed with wax and addressed to Clary at the New York Institute using her finest pen and ink. 

She supposes that the purpose of the action _could_ be construed as blackmail, but that isn’t completely accurate. Blackmail would imply that Clary had something that she wanted, something that she could get back by presenting her with the images and, frankly, there isn’t anything Clary has that Camille can’t find somewhere else in a heartbeat. 

(Aside from her blood, of course, but even then, Camille is sure that, if she drinks from enough Shadowhunters, she’ll find someone who tastes just as sweet.) 

So it isn’t blackmail. Rather, she sent the photos to Clary as a _reminder_ , to make her remember that, no matter how hard she throws herself into the life of a Shadowhunter, no matter how _superior_ the others may tell her that she is, she can’t escape her past.

Can’t escape Camille. 

“I thought you might appreciate the reminder of who you are,” she says simply, taking another sip from her glass. “Who you _really_ are, despite all... this.” She waves at Clary’s body, at the black clothing and runes. “Did you show the pictures to anyone else?” 

“What?” Clary asks, cheeks flushing a lovely pale pink. “No. No one else has seen them.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” Camille retorts, biting back a smirk. Clary’s heartbeat is speeding up ever so slightly, and while the sharp scent of anger is still floating around her, it’s starting to be eked out by something earthier, something _thicker._ If you were so upset by the pictures,” she continues, setting her glass down on her desk and stepping away from it, “why didn’t you just burn them? I would have been none the wiser.” Clary doesn’t speak, and when Camille glances up at her, she’s met with flared nostrils, lips drawn into a tight line, and fingers curled into fists. 

It’s the exact look of someone resisting with all their might. 

Resisting _what_ is what Camille is interested in finding out. 

“If you just wanted to throw them back into my face,” she says, moving closer to Clary, heels pressing into the photographs littering the floor, “you’ve already accomplished that. You’re free to leave. Unless there was another reason you came here, of course.” She lets those words dangle in the air between them, like a thrashing worm hanging from the end of a barbed hook. She doesn’t plan on giving Clary any more bait; either she’ll turn on her heel and walk away, or she’ll snap.

Camille counts twelve of Clary’s heartbeats before Clary finally moves. 

She doesn’t say a word. She simply crosses the space between them and slams her mouth against Camille’s, unrelenting from the moment they crash together. She kisses her like it’s an attack, like she’s trying to rip her to shreds. Her teeth sink into Camille’s bottom lip, clamp down on her tongue, tug at her flesh like she’s more werewolf than Shadowhunter. Her hands are equally as relentless; her short nails scrape down Camille’s exposed arms, leaving behind long red scratches, before she moves up and threads her fingers tight into Camille’s hair, like she’s trying to yank it out of her scalp. 

Camille allows her to have a few moments of what must feel like a victory before she turns the tables. 

Clary is the one who left her, after all. 

If anyone deserves to be bitten, deserves to be scratched and bruised, it’s her. 

When Clary leans away to suck in a breath, Camille wraps her fingers around her delicate chin, yanks her head to the side, and sinks her fangs deep into Clary’s neck. 

The blood that washes over her tongue burns hot as silver and tastes sweeter than any confectionery that even the most talented of bakers could create.

Clary’s fingers dig hard into her shoulders, leave behind crescent shaped divots that will heal in mere moments, and she sags against Camille’s front as she drains more blood from her. When her heartbeat has become definitively weaker, Camille forces herself to pull away. Dragging the back of her hand against her mouth, which smears both blood and lipstick from her knuckles to the knob of her wrist, she glances up at Clary’s face. Her skin is pale, and her eyes are at half-mast, fluttering with adrenaline. 

She _may_ have drank a bit too much.

“You taste as wonderful as ever,” she says, dropping her hand from Clary’s chin. 

Clary’s eyes snap fully open.

“Shut up,” she hisses, tightening her fingers on Camille’s shoulders and hopping up until her legs are wound around Camille’s waist. She immediately swoops back down to Camille’s mouth, drags the point of her tongue up Camille’s chin to her blood-streaked lips, and kisses her like she wants to climb inside of her. 

On that note, Camille has to decide where she wants to put Clary down. She’s always been fond of how Clary looks spread out on her desk, her fingers tightened around the edge, hair streaming nearly to the floor as she arches her back, but doing that would require that Camille sweep everything off the desk’s surface, and there are some things on it that she’d prefer not to break. 

Sofa it is, then. 

She crosses the room in the space between two of Clary’s heartbeats and unceremoniously drops her down onto the couch hard enough for her to bounce. She already looks debauched; hair mussed up, tank top and bra straps slipping down her shoulders, twin rivulets of blood staining her neck.

If Camille _truly_ wanted to blackmail her, wanted to threaten to show everyone at the damned Institute what kind of person their newest recruit was, she would send them a picture of _this_. 

Sadly, the back of the sofa blocks the view of her camera. 

Clary scrambles into a seated position, back against the sofa and, after a moment of pondering how precisely she wants to go about the rest of their time together, Camille decides to sink down with her knees on either side of Clary’s narrow hips. Before she can pull her dress up so that she has more freedom of movement, Clary does it for her, shoves the fabric up until it’s bunched together around the line of Camille’s hips. 

“Impatient, are we?” Camille asks, raising an eyebrow as Clary’s hand drops between her legs. 

“Don’t talk,” Clary mutters as her slim fingers dance up the inside of Camille’s thigh to her underwear. She wastes no time in pushing them to the side and shoving two of her fingers into Camille, only curls them for a few moments before she adds a third. There’s no real pain; if anything, the stretch just makes _more_ arousal flood between Camille’s legs, but the sheer brazenness of the move, the way Clary is looking up at her with a full-blown smirk that is begging to be smacked off her face, demands that Camille punish her accordingly. 

So before Clary can drop her other hand to Camille’s clit, Camille grabs her wrist, yanks it up to her mouth, and sinks her teeth in. 

She’s careful not to drink for too long; the last thing she needs is Clary passing out on her. As soon as her heartbeat shows signs of slowing again, she retracts her fangs and drags her tongue over the twin holes to encourage them to stop bleeding. 

“You can touch me now,” she says, loosening her fingers around Clary’s wrist and guiding her hand back down to her cunt. 

“I hate you,” Clary mutters. 

Her blown pupils and the way she eagerly starts to move her fingers against Camille’s slick flesh says otherwise, but Camille decides not to push it. 

Clary’s dexterity has certainly benefited from her Shadowhunter training; she was more than sufficient at using her hands before but now, she’s downright talented. It doesn’t take long for Camille to clench around three of her fingers, hips rolling down as she works her way through the waves of pleasure uncoiling in her body. Nails digging into Clary’s narrow shoulders, she doesn’t realize she’s drawn blood until she pulls her hand away to find streaks of red decorating her golden polish.

With one final, almost painful twitch of her fingers, Clary withdraws her hands from between Camille’s legs and wipes them off on her pants. 

A few weeks ago, she would have licked them clean. 

That’s almost enough to make Camille tell her to get out, leave her wet and wanting and _desperate._

But perhaps there will be a next time for that. 

So, instead, she moves off Clary’s lap and drops to the floor between her legs, makes short work of the button and zipper of her tight pants and yanks them down to her ankle in the time it takes Clary to blink. She distinctively hears a seam rip, but she pays it no mind as she curls her fingers around Clary’s hips and yanks her forward so that she can get her mouth on her. 

By the time Clary comes with her heels digging bruises into Camille’s shoulders there’s more blood dappling the outside of her thighs, dripping down her skin from the parallel scratches left behind by Camille’s nails. 

She’s nice enough to let Clary catch her breath before she slips out from underneath her legs and moves back across the room to the desk to retrieve her glass of blood. It’s almost room temperature, and the taste is nowhere comparable to Clary’s, but it’s sufficient enough for her purposes. 

“I’m afraid I won’t be walking you to the door, darling,” she says, glancing at the ornately carved grandfather clock standing in the corner of the room, which proclaims that it’s just after six o’clock in the morning. “It’s past my bedtime.” 

“Go to hell,” Clary says, getting to her feet unsteadily. She’s an absolute mess; there’s dried blood streaking her thighs, wrist and neck, and her face is pale as a snowflake. When she leans over to pull her pants back up, she sways like a tree caught in the wind. 

Camille could help her, she supposes, but that would require putting her glass back down again. 

So instead, she simply watches as Clary redresses and does her best to fix her thoroughly mussed hair. 

When she’s done the best she can (which does absolutely _nothing_ to make it look like she didn’t just get fucked), she strides towards the door, pausing only for a moment to glance back over her shoulder. 

“Don’t send me any more pictures,” she says. “Or the next time I come back here, I’ll...” She trails off, leaves Camille to fill in the end of the sentence with her imagination. It’s probably supposed to make the statement more threatening, and it’s all too possible that on some people, it’s a tactic that might actually work. 

Camille just laughs.

“Whatever you say, darling,” she says to Clary’s back as she stomps out of the room. Her footsteps are still audible when Camille raises her glass back to her lips, smoothing down the front of her dress with her free hand. 

She doesn’t plan on sending Clary any more pictures, but she still gives it a week until Clary comes back to her.

(She actually only has to wait four days.)

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
